I am Sylfina Elowen, 324 years old, and I am a lot more than just a loyal servant and Governess to the Noble Griswald Household.
Sir Loxly, standing by the entrance, has a firm grip on Lord Foster’s arm, attempting to redirect him back out the front door.
“Let go of me, you bloody commoner!” the noble spits, yanking his arm free with an indignant huff.
“You need to leave now—” Loxly begins, but the noble cuts him off, his voice rising.
“Do you have any idea who I am?!”
I step forward, keeping my voice steady but loud enough to command attention. “Lord Foster.”
The noble’s head snaps toward me. I continue walking with purpose, making my way to my seat at the far end of the table. Abigail silently moves to stand by the door to Griswald’s study with an uneasy expression.
“Yes. We know who you are,” I speak slowly, as I calmly settle into my chair. If he is to waste my time, he can be sure that I will waste his. “And,” I lift the chronologue up from my blouse, and click open its cover to consult the dials, “you are half an hour early.”
This man is barely a noble himself, with a hand me down title as a baron's lacky. Loxly’s status, only officially below his, was earned through years of decorated service in the Arcadian military.
“I need to speak to Griswald now!” he barks, his tone dripping with entitlement.
Loxly looks to me for confirmation, clearly conveying an unspoken eagerness to throw the man out at my word.
I exhale slowly. “It’s fine, Sir Loxly. You may go.”
Loxly hesitates, his sharp eyes flicking between Foster and me. “You sure?”
“Yes, we’re fine,” I reply with a firm nod.
He steps back, though not without giving Foster one last warning glance before exiting the room.
“Filthy commoner,” Foster mutters loudly before turning his full attention back to me.
“Where is your master, slave?” Foster growls, his voice thick with disdain.
“He is indisposed…” I reply smoothly. A beat of silence follows, and in that pause, Daphne’s moans filter through the heavy wooden door of the study.
Internally, I cringe. Outwardly, I remain composed.
“Please, take a seat, Lord Foster,” I continue, my tone unwavering.
“I am not here to speak with Griswald’s playthings,” he scoffs, his lip curling in disgust.
“He has ordered that I—”
“Shut your trap, whore!” Foster roars, his voice reverberating through the room. “I am well aware of Griswald’s… liberties when it comes to his slaves, but the rest of us nobles know their place! Slaves are to be seen, not heard. And certainly not negotiated with! ”
“Please, Lord Foster—” Abigail starts timidly from her position beside the study door.
“Shut up, red pelt!” he snaps before she can finish.
The vile slur, specifically meant for red-furred foxkin, carries the implication that they are nothing more than livestock, existing merely to be skinned and worn as a fashionable accessory. It was the kind of insult that revealed more about the vulgarian wielding it than it did about the target it was aimed at.
“If either of you speak again, I will shut you up myself,” he sneers. “How humiliating for Griswald, needing another noble to discipline his disobedient property.”
I exhale slowly, reigning in the rising heat behind my ribs. I give Abigail a subtle wave, and she instantly takes the cue, slipping into the study without another word.
“Good. Finally going to fetch your master, I assume,” Foster says smugly, crossing his arms.
“Trust me,” I reply, my voice carrying a dark edge. “You do not want to meet my master.”
Foster’s eyes narrow, his expression twisting in irritation. “What was that?” he growls through gritted teeth.
He strides forward aggressively, looming over me where I sit, his right hand twitching at his side. I watch, unimpressed, as he raises it—fingers curling as if to slap me.
“I said, slaves do not speak to nobles,” he seethes, his voice low and threatening.
I arch an eyebrow, remaining utterly unfazed. “I recommend you not—”
BANG.
Foster’s hand never reaches me. An inch from my face, an explosive force repels his strike with such violent intensity that the bones in his fingers shatter instantly. The sheer impact sends him hurtling backward as if struck by a battering ram. His body slams into the wall with a sickening thud, rattling the entire room. Had the walls not been magically reinforced, I suspect he would have gone straight through. Documents scatter from the table, caught in the blast, drifting through the air like fallen leaves.
He collapses in a heap, his breath leaving him in a painful wheeze, eyes wide in utter disbelief as sheets of parchment drift to the floor all over the room.
“—strike me,” I finish smoothly.
I rise gracefully from my chair, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him. Standing over his crumpled form, I lean forward slightly, looking down at him with a smug, almost amused expression as he groans in agony, clutching his shattered hand.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Do you see these collars we wear, Lord Foster?” I say, gesturing to the finely woven gossamer resting against my throat. “They are not the collars you are familiar with.”
Foster clutches his mangled hand, his face contorted in pain. “W-What…?” he stammers, still too stunned to comprehend what just happened.
“These,” I continue, smiling pleasantly, “are enchanted so that only our master may strike us.”
“Griswald doesn’t use that feature often,” I add more to myself, letting my fingers trail along my collar. “Not to punish us, anyway…”
As I straighten, I glance over my shoulder, noting the sudden silence from the study. The moaning has stopped. “Oh well…” I mutter.
“You’ll burn for that!” Foster snarls.
I turn back just in time to see him fumbling a wand from his trouser pocket. He clumsy and awkwardly uses his left hand due to his right being shattered. At the same moment, I hear a heavy door slam into the wall behind me.
A sharp bolt of fear pierces my chest, a deep-seated terror I can never fully escape. Though I wear my confidence well within the safety of Griswald’s domain, I have never forgotten what nobles like Foster are capable of. My body moves before my mind catches up, instinctively stepping back as his wand raises.
I see it, the lethal intent in his glare, the sheer malice twisting his features. His lips part, shaping the syllables of a spell, and I feel the air hum with the gathering mana, the energy coiling toward the focus crystal at the tip of his wand.
CRASH
A glass bottle explodes against the side of Foster’s head. My mind slows to a crawl, registering the moment in absurd clarity—the way the glass shatters, sending jagged shards flying, the rippling shockwave through the flesh of his cheek, the widening of his furious eyes.
Then, time snaps back into place.
Foster’s head jerks violently to the side, his body twisting as his half-formed spell sputters out in a pathetic flicker of light, firing uselessly toward the ceiling. He staggers, momentarily stunned.
Before he can recover, the floor trembles beneath me as Lord Griswald, a towering, naked mass of raw muscle, vaults over the parlor table like a war beast descending upon its prey. The sheer force of his landing sends a shockwave through the room.
Foster barely has time to process what’s happening before Griswald’s massive fist collides with his face. The impact is devastating—Foster’s feet leave the ground as his body is launched backward, slamming into the wall for the second time tonight. This time, he doesn’t get back up. His limp body slumps to the floor, unconscious, blood streaking down the stone behind him.
Without pause, Griswald steps forward, seizes Foster by the neck with one massive hand, and hoists him into the air like a ragdoll. With a roar of effort, he swings him down and drives him through the table.
The wood shatters beneath the impact, splinters flying in every direction as Foster’s limp form lands in a heap amidst the wreckage. Griswald, in all his untamed masculine fury, looms over him like a vengeful titan. His broad chest rises and falls with barely restrained fury, his thick beard doing little to hide the redness of his face, whether from rage, intoxication, or both. The sharp scent of ale and intimacy hangs in the air around him.
I can’t help but take a moment to look him over, my gaze trailing the hard lines of his taut muscles, the way his body still thrums with violence and the remnants of virility that was interrupted. The raw power in his presence stirs something deep inside me, something I quickly shove back down.
“Thank you,” I say, offering a smile despite myself.
He grunts in response, his golden eyes flickering down to me, unreadable through his lingering fury and intoxication.
“Daphne, would you be so kind as to heal him, please?” I say, sardonically formal, as I turn towards the study door.
Daphne, still naked from the waist down, blinks lazily at me, looking entirely unbothered. “Oh, right.” She takes a single step into the room before tilting her head. “Wait… which ‘him’?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. Before I can respond, Griswald steps toward me, his broad chest suddenly very close to my face.
I freeze as his large, calloused hands reach out, cupping either side of my head. His thumbs brush against my temples as he pushes my hair back, tilting my face up toward him as he inspects me.
I gulp.
His touch is careful, gentle despite the earlier violence, yet his eyes are still sharp with residual aggression. He tilts my head from side to side slightly, checking for wounds, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Before things can escalate further, a soft green glow washes over him.
Griswald frowns, blinking as he glances over his shoulder toward Daphne, who is still standing by the study door, her hands raised mid-cast.
“Heal the man on the ground, Daphne,” I clarify with a sigh.
“Ohhh,” she hums, the glow shifting away from Griswald and settling over Foster instead. “You didn’t say .”
I smirk. “No need to be too thorough. Leave him with a souvenir.”
Daphne chuckles. “I think the black eye suits him.”
“You’re okay?” Griswald asks, his deep voice carrying an uncharacteristic softness as he looks down at me, his brows still furrowed with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. I can handle things from here,” I assure him, straightening my posture.
Griswald studies me for a moment longer before turning on his heel. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the freshly healed but still dazed Lord Foster by the collar. The noble barely has time to register what’s happening before Griswald hauls him up one-handed and unceremoniously deposits him into the chair I had originally directed him to sit in.
Foster lands with a sharp gasp, his trembling hands gripping the arms of the chair as though it might somehow save him from further violence.
Satisfied, Griswald strides toward Daphne, who had retrieved his fur-lined traveler’s cloak from the study. She helps him drape it over his broad shoulders, fastening the clasp as he shifts it into place. He then moves to a seat just behind me, lowering himself with an air of casual dominance, legs spread wide, his eyes locked onto Foster in silent warning.
I settle into my own chair, folding my hands neatly on my lap and offering Foster a pleasant, businesslike smile. His petrified gaze meets mine, his face pale, his hair disheveled and riddled with splinters. His once-pristine noble attire is now torn in several places, and his hands shake as he clings to the armrests.
“So,” I begin smoothly, tilting my head slightly. “Now that you’ve met my master…”
Foster shudders but says nothing.
I gesture lightly toward him. “Tell me, Lord Foster, what brings you here today?”
“Nothing!” he blurts, his voice cracking.
I arch an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Yes! Nothing at all!”
I glance briefly at Griswald, who remains silent, his stare alone enough to make Foster squirm.
“You are absolutely sure?” I press, my tone as sweet as honey.
“Yes!” he nearly shouts.
“No concerns, then? No issues with your delivery of mithril swords?”
Foster stiffens, eyes darting wildly. “No! We are… very happy with the swords!”
I lean back slightly, giving a slow nod of mock satisfaction. “Ah, wonderful. Another happy customer. How thoughtful of Lord Cromwell to send you all this way to deliver such a compliment in person.”
Before Foster can attempt to crawl further into the depths of his cowardice, the front doors burst open with a loud crack.
“Come—” Sir Loxly strides in but freezes mid-sentence, his eyes scanning the room.
His gaze sweeps across the wreckage of the table, lingers on Foster’s disheveled and bloodied form, then shifts to Daphne—who, after a moment of processing, squeals and ducks back into the study upon realizing her state of undress. Loxly’s eyes then land on me, then Griswald… then lower, then back to Griswald’s face.
His lips part slightly, as if debating whether or not to ask what in the hell happened here. But after a moment, he wisely decides against it.
Instead, he clears his throat and announces, “Come quick, Miss Diana is back!” His tone is deliberately even, as though he has seen nothing at all.
Griswald and I leap to our feet at the exact same moment, our voices overlapping in a startled, urgent
Each and every character in this story has a character sheet that include their Magical capacity, growth rate, abilities, spells, equipment and key facts. How would you like to see them?
